


The Wolves Will Devour

by ofstarsandlovedust



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Demonic Possession, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofstarsandlovedust/pseuds/ofstarsandlovedust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the guy that affirmed your sexuality comes back to town?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Getting unpossessed shouldn't feel like shit

Derek had appeared in much the same way the seasons do.In that they change seamlessly into each other; slowly, progressively, until he’d crept up on Stiles and turned his life on its axis. That’s how Derek had come back to Stiles’ life.

 

Walking in from the blinding summer light, Stiles stood in the shadowy entry for a few moments waiting for his eyes to adjust. The air in Brewed Awakenings was suffused in that toasty smell of books and coffee. He breathed in contently, the same way he did every time he stepped through those doors. Something aligning within himself. True, however saccharine the sentiment was.

 

Stiles thought it had a _little_ to do with Derek working there, but he’d never admit that much to himself.He must have been a glutton for punishment, but that’s why he was there that day. Looking for Derek through the aisles of bookshelves, skirting around tables and love-seats full of coffees and chattering costumers. 

 

When he stopped before the fantasy section Derek was up in a ladder, having a hard time stuffing books in their right place. In his black leather jacket and stubble, he looked downright ridiculous. 

 

_Ridiculously hot_ , a small voice in his head said. 

 

“You look like a giant bear up there,” he teased, fully knowing that Derek had been aware of his presence before he came in to the cafe. Maybe even blocks before he’d gotten there.

 

Derek looked over his shoulder, only regarding him with raised eyebrows. Absurd as it was he’d missed those expressive eyebrows. His face softened after a moment and an expression of deep affection, and perhaps a little shock, crossed Derek’s features. 

 

In return, Stiles felt himself smiling and raised his hand to say hi. When Derek descended the steps and leveled with him, Stiles stepped close. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked, eyes full of concern. 

 

“Good. Better,” he said, only half lying. He was better than he’d been two weeks ago, when he’d could barely make it to the bathroom on his own. Even a week ago, when he couldn’t even face going to the supermarket; the thought of people and their questions, too scary to even attempt. Never mind the sensory overload he got from just watching tv. 

 

He resented that Derek had to ask him that. A few weeks back they would have trudge on as if nothing had happened. Derek knowing Stiles could take it, not seeing him as something weak and bendable. But he had been, and now everything felt unfocused, disjointed, a little bit awkward.

 

Most of all, guilt flared in his gut. It was acid in his stomach. He’d done nothing but think of all the things he had done in the past month. 

 

Stiles would like to think it wasn’t him. And in some truths it hadn’t been. He knew he was an asshole sometimes. Okay, most of the time. But, if given the choice he wouldn’t have said and done what he did, but he never got that chance. 

 

All those words and thoughts had come from him. Deep within him. A darkness that was used against him and all those he loved and knew, a darkness all of his own. He might have been stretched thin, but if there wasn’t anything to break nothing would have happened. 

 

Rationally, he understood what happened to him, what had been _done to him_. Still, he felt the weight of hurt eyes, and pleading voices, the burden of his lies veiled in truths. Or was it truths behind lies. 

 

That was the grittiness of reality—having to face it and live with it. He didn’t feel like himself; he felt vulnerable, and maybe not weak, but used. Violated. Wilted. _Possessed_. Like his body wasn’t his own, and he feared it never would be, that they’d taken something of his with them. 

When he’d gotten released from the hospital and he’d reclaimed his old room at his dad’s place, he didn’t think of anything that had happened. He existed and he breathed, and he went on, but he refused to give them anything more. 

 

Now that all seemed silly and pointless. So, no, he wasn’t good, but better would have to do for now. 

 

“I’m sorry,” the words came out broken and directed at his feet. The sting of tears prickled at his eyes. Each word taking it’s time to come out, not because he didn’t mean them, but because he couldn’t say enough to really encompass everything that needed to be said. To be repentant about. “If you never wanted to talk to me or see me again, I’ll understand, but I—that guy wasn’t me. It might have come from me, but I’d like to think I would never hurt someone like that. That I don’t believe the things he said. I said.”

 

“Shit. Fuck.” Stiles scoffed derisively, “it _was_ me.” And wasn’t that the crux of the problem.

 

Suddenly seeing Derek’s face again had made all his suppressed emotions threaten to overflow and before Derek had the time to think something up—not that Stiles was waiting to be forgiven, because that might never come—he started talking again. Messing it up even more. “Shit. Fuck.” He repeated. “Oh God. Forget it, I don’t deserve to ask to be forgiven.” For a moment his breathing was deep and shaky, and he tried to keep the desperation from his voice. He looked back up at Derek, and he didn’t want to know what his face showed at that moment. He hoped it wasn’t as pathetic as he sounded. “I’m just so angry,” he found himself saying, “ _All the time_. I shouldn’t, I know. Not anymore, not after I got all unpossessed and shit. I know that, and I know what I did to you guys was worse, but I—” Something like a strangle choke cut off his voice. He squeezed his eyes closed, and looked away, not wanting Derek to see anymore.

 

“Hey,” Derek said. Not hard, but firm. “Don’t trivialize your feelings. You were hurt, in more ways than I can even imagine. Yes, you said some words that...really hit their mark, but they were true, so there isn’t anything you should feel bad about. At least not with me.”

 

“I was an asshole, Derek. That’s never justifiable. If there’s something that this whole shitstorm taught me it was that.”

 

With a sigh, Derek turned to grab a book out of the cart. Then twisted it in his hands to the bind, Stiles guessed to start shelving again. He shouldn’t feel disappointed, hell he should feel relieved. But it felt like a good bye, a dismissal. 

 

That wasn’t what he wanted. At all. 

 

“I can’t forgive you,” Derek’s voice startled Stiles, who had made to leave. The words sliced at him. He contemplated acting like he hadn’t heard him. “Because the one who needs to be forgiven is me.”

 

_Okay_ , Stiles surely must still be possessed. It was possible that he was in the hospital, stuck in a coma. Stiles shook his head, not getting it. At his wide-eyed look, Derek’s lip twisted into a sad smile. Apologetic, even. “Everything that happened was my fault. Everything that happened to you was because of me. You said I’m the toxic in Beacon Hills and you were right. About everything: Jennifer, the murders, the Adze. Your possession, that was me and my baggage.” In the smallest voice, he said, “My curse.”

 

They fell in to silence, one charged with unresolved remorse, and self-reproach.. He wished he could say something to make it all alright. Just something. Anything. Make him take that look of pity off his face, make him growl, even glower at him. 

 

For the second time since he’d come in, he moved to leave. Words, which came so easy to Stiles, evaded him now. He didn’t know why he had come, only knew that for weeks he’d been waiting for this moment. Now that he had Derek in front of him, he really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing or saying. He was never one to speak his feelings, and he couldn’t really ignore it and act like nothing happened. 

 

“Hey,” Derek called out as Stiles stuffed his hands in his pants. “I, uh can’t get this book in there.” A pause, then, “Want to give it a try?”

 

A bit of a war waged on. With himself, with Derek, between them two. And maybe it was stupid and maybe nothing would be the same, but for a moment he needed things to be how they used to be.

 

Derek got off the ladder, and stepped aside for Stiles to climb. The familiar sight of Derek’s arched brow making an appearance. Stiles must be easy because just that is enough to make him happy, exhilarated even. 

 

“Yeah. I want to give it a try,” He wasn’t sure if he was only talking about books, or if Derek meant more by it, but for some reason it seemed the start of something. 

 

 

 

For the next hour or so books were passed between them. Shelving taking far longer than necessary, because Stiles made Derek read him the synopsis of every book. _I have to know the story, Derek, I can’t just go and shelve a cowboy story next_ _to—I don’t know fisting 101._ Truth was he liked the sound of Derek’s voice, the enunciation and inflictions he gave each blurb. 

 

Commentary was ever flowing, Derek stating when he’d read a particular book, or if it caught his attention he’d scribbled the title on a notepad he kept in his jacket. Stiles’ supply to the conversation was whether the book sounded interesting based on the blurb or the cover. At times, they read the first sentence, or a line in page 24. 

 

“Why 24? Is this some “turn to page 394” thing?” Derek interrupted, with a startling imitation Snape’s that had Stiles teetering on the edge of the ladder as he doubled over with laughter. 

 

Stiles didn’t only listen, he took his fill on Derek. Followed every curve and line of Derek’s body.How as his arms swung languidly, his shoulders bunched in time. Trim hips that lent way to powerful thighs. 

 

Derek obviously spent time in the gym. The phrase ‘Built like a champ’ fitted him. Something like envy churned low in his belly. Or at least that’s what he assumed the sensation was.

 

Derek’s scruff was turning into a beard. A rougher contrast to how Stiles had first seen him all those weeks ago—all clean shaven, but still undeniably handsome––shit, it was time to pull back from browsing all those harlequin novels. 

 

Stiles must have been far gone, some side affects of the medicine they’d given him at the hospital. Because he’d found himself missing those eyebrows, those ridiculous eyebrows that spoke to him. Which, yeah, they kinda do, because Derek used them as a talking device for his suppressed social personality.

 

“I just find it highly unbelievable that the Misfit and the family crossed paths. We’re talking about a huge probability! Don’t get me started on the “touch of grace.” Either my interpretation was completely off base or the scholars make shit up out of their asses. Do this people read it while they’re high?” 

 

Stiles loved arguing in class, really he loved talking. About anything and everything. With Derek, though, it might turn into his new pastime. Derek didn’t let Stiles get away with anything, never backing down from a heated debated. It wasn’t that Derek liked to contradict him, though, because he would hear Stiles’ argument before giving his acquiescent or retribution. 

 

“How did you read that scene?” Derek asked intrigued, a slight crease dividing his brows. Stiles got a small thrill out of that. 

 

He especially liked the way he had Derek’s undivided attention in that moment. Not that he cared much about that, it’s just that he wanted his humor and sarcasm and knowledge to be appreciated, heard and known. He was a giver after all.

 

“For me, it was more of a ‘How dare you touch me’ move. Think about all the people who hate being touched, and here we have this escaped murderer—who really isn’t all that sane to begin with, by his own admission, however subtle and unintentional it was. Anyway, he’s there talking about Jesus, doubting and questioning, and just thriving on the pleasure of killing and taking lives. “No pleasure but meanness,” is what he says, but he’s contradicting himself at every turn, so really we can’t trust him. All the sudden this woman touches him, and perhaps he’s disgusted, _loathes_ being touched, even.

 

“And hello! Escaped murderer, who just sent the grandma’s family to be killed off in pairs, shoots the woman who thought it be okay to touch him. Yeah, that didn’t read like a touch of ‘grace’ moment for me.”

 

Moment’s like this is what he’s missed. Normalcy, as normal as it can be when discussingO’Connor and a poem that really has nothing to do with the title. Hell when he read it, he thought it’d be a love story, a woman trying to find a good man, no pun intended. 

 

He’d been spewing off stuff, points he’d previously argued with his professor, but now he was stuck on the sane part, and how he truly believed in what he said. Had lived through it. Those moments when you’re half insane, half sober. When a whisper of a touch flicks the hatred in your blood, makes you wish they knew how powerless they all truly were. 

 

His chest ached, gut clenching. The silence clawing at him hurt, not exactly a physical pain, but not entirely an emotional one. Keeping busy seemed to hold the memories at bay, and that’s all the wanted; to go back to who he was before. Before the hospital, and the coma and the nightmares. Even before Derek came back to town. He wanted to be himself, but he knew it was futile, because he’d never be the same. 

 

Grabbing another stack of books, far too many, he stepped back on to the ladder. He must have gotten up from the floor too quickly or something, because a dizzy spell had him swaying, the books threatening to topple over. Thankfully, it passed without either of them falling to ground. 

 

A misstep, though, had him careening of the ladder. It wasn’t so much a dizzy spell again, as it was that he felt the ground rise up, gravity and his body spinning and spinning. Readying himself for impact, Stiles scrunched up his eyes against the pain that never came, instead all he felt was Derek’s firm and hard body underneath his own. 

 

A second after being cushioned by Derek, the pain came, from what felt like the edge of a hardcover colliding on the back of his head. He rose up onto his elbows, groaning against the sting the book had left behind. Anyone who thought books weren’t dangerous were wrong, they _were_ weapons. He felt lightheaded, the shock hitting him harder that the impact of the book or anything else. 

 

Stiles collapsed on Derek’s shoulder, laying his cheek against it and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against his. Which _rude_ , so inappropriate. But Derek was dark heat and delicate layers underneath him. 

 

Neither spoke, nor made to move off the other. Except he knew he’d broken at some point, knew it since he walked through the wooden doors of the cafe. Since he made the decision to look for Derek, really. Frankly, it was all too weird. 

 

The pause went on for too long, and he was about to say something, some sarcastic quip, anything. Instead the last thing he wanted to talk about came out, willingly, to the last person he expected to be talking about it with.“You would think that after everything I’d be dying to sleep. Sleep depravation and all...but I can’t.” He still had his eyes closed, against the words he was speaking, against Derek’s reaction. “I’m scared. Afraid of what will be there, of what won’t.”

 

Stiles’ eyes shot open, body locked up, when he felt himself enveloped in Derek’s arms. After a moment he sank in to the warmth that he provided, nuzzling Derek’s collarbone, absorbing his smell deep in to his bones. So the coldness that pervaded within him could be overpowered by something far stronger. 

 

In that moment, he was terrified. Of how much he liked the way Derek’s arm and heat folded around him. As if he had no intention of ever letting go. 

 

What scared him more was how fine it was by him. More than fine.

 

Someone feeling safe was far more dangerous than someone terrified. It made them reckless, off-guard and all the more vulnerable. When he’s feeling more himself he’d pin it on the lack of sleep, causing him to have an emotional breakdown that has sent him spiraling into some kind of dark abyss, straight into Derek’s arms. 

 

“Can I stay over tonight? Just one night.” He might have whispered the words, and would have thought he’d merely imagined wishing for it, until Derek replied with an equally soft yes. His hand trailing up to his nape. The warmth of that strong hand resting there offering a type of solace. Moments later he started messaging lightly.The admission had left him dizzy, and he shut his eyes closed, again. 

 

****

 

Why couldn’t he have one good night? Wasn’t he fucking owed one? One goddamn night of sleep, that’s all he wanted. With dreams or without, he wasn’t picky about it.

 

He wanted to curl up and sleep for days, he’d take a few hours, but fear rattled through him at the thought of being alone, of not waking up. 

 

Waking up in cold sweats, and sometimes crying himself to sleep had put him off on trying to get some rest. Since getting discharged from the hospital he’d stayed over at his dad house, and he was both grateful and uncomfortable about that. He didn’t want to be alone in his apartment, Scott’s absence highlighted even more during this time. Contrary to what he had said a few weeks ago, he didn’t begrudge Scott leaving for a mission in Honduras. Saving the world one country at a time, that was who he was, and Stiles would forever be his sidekick, no matter how much he sometimes hated not being able to do more.

 

But now he couldn’t count on him, so he wouldn’t burden his father with more worries, more bills. More headaches. 

 

Back in the Sheriff house, the air was stifled with unvoiced questions, and concerned glances. Screams filled the house night after night, but the unwavering support his dad gave him just about broke him. He spent the nights pleading with his brain to shut the fuck up and let him sleep. Let him forget. 

 

Fuck. This. Fuck _him_. Shoving the sheets aside, Stiles climb off the guest bed and stormed down to Derek’s room.

 

It’s not that he needed Derek—to sleep or otherwise. He’d asked to stay the night for the Sheriff benefit, ‘s’ all. Certainly not because he’d wanted to see Derek, to make sure he was okay. That they were okay. It also didn’t mean he had been unhappy that he hadn’t visited him once in the hospital, or asked after him. He definitely wasn’t angry—he didn’t have the right to be, but if he was to be angry it wouldn’t be because their fragile friendship was over, or that Derek didn’t care that he wouldn’t be around anymore. No, he didn’t care much about Derek. In fact, he was going over there right now to tell him he was leaving.

 

When he got to Derek’s room, the door was cracked opened. Seeing that deflated him, letting the air out of his lungs in a rush. It could very well be that Derek slept with the door open, but Stiles foolishly hoped that he was keeping an eye, ear, whatever on Stiles. He seemed to be contradicting himself in what he wanted from Derek. He didn’t want pity or concern from him, but he did want to matter to the guy. 

 

Snark deserted him. Panic and raw loneliness overcoming his mind and body as he realized that Derek could throw him out, accept his leaving; his life and his house.

 

With trepidation, he opened the door wide, instantly spotting the figure in the left side of the queen sized bed. Derek sat up and raised his eyebrows. Stiles knew then he hadn’t been sleeping. Hoped he had been waiting for him. 

 

“You think too loud,” Derek fell back on the bed without waiting for Stiles’s reply. When the bed dipped beneath his knees and his body slid against the soft sheets the restlessness that had been powering him all day suddenly subsided, still present but not as loud as it usually was. 

 

Both laid on their sides, a word not passed in the inches that separated them. Studying the edges of Derek face—the hard edges and soft features, Stiles could read Derek’s tortured soul. His damaged, troubled past etched in the darkness of his eyes. 

 

Part of the moon gleamed through the clouds and only that filtered through the windows, but he could make out his features, especially his eyes. He had this heterochromatic eyes, and it was as if the sun was hitting them directly, brighting them to the Gods vision of perfection, because he could picture their vibrancy in that moment. They were this beautiful green all the way to the inside edge of his irises and them, bam, they exploded in this ring of gold and orange.

 

But when he looked deep into Derek’s eyes, they reflected total darkness. One that he’d gotten a glimpse of before. 

 

Stiles scrambled for new words, another apology, a plea, anything to fix the awkwardness between them. Instead his hand skittered to Derek’s wrist, and then trailed up to intertwine with his hand. He could have sworn Derek’s eyes flashed blue just for a moment. 

 

Something like desire ran through him, not with lust, but for someone to hold him in the dark. Derek surely sensed it, smell it, and he waited for a reaction, for him to extricate and confiscate his hand from Stiles’s grip, but it never happened. Stiles held on to Derek’s hand, as if it was the only thing anchoring him to this earth, to his own body. 

 

When Derek spoke it was rough with disuse, “You’ve got really cold hands,”

 

Lately it seemed he was cold all over, and he’d been about to apologize for it, but he didn’t think Derek meant it as anything bad. “Cold hands, warm hearts, is what they say.”

 

Derek shook his head. “Are you a child? Who would even say that?”

 

Stiles let out a bark of laughter, and said around it, “It’s a nice theory,” sounding as affronted as he could. “Like I’m sure somewhere in this vast world someone has that saying. It’s probably a belief in some country.”

 

“You’re really a child.”

 

The corner of his lips twitching cheekily upwards as Stiles continued to laugh.

In the end, that night while he slowly drifted to sleep, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Derek’s sleeping face. He wasn’t entirely sure he was sleeping, as Stiles had been faking sleeping for the last hour, but Derek’s face looked surprisingly kind when his eyes were closed.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire chapter one has been edited and revised. So, no more edits and should be the final version.


	2. He was ruin. He was destruction. He was ashes in his hands.

Derek listened to Stiles’ breathing, until it grew slow and deep. To the beat of his heart, which was always frantic, now was even. For a while, Stiles had tried to act like he’d fallen asleep, attempting to even his heartbeat, but doing that was like trying to block out the sun with a thumb. 

 

In sleep Stiles took on a form Derek had never seen from him—carefree and fragile — at least not since Derek had gotten back to Beacon Hills. This close he could see things he hadn’t had the chance to before. Like how Stiles’s eyelashes were long and dark in the shadows, just like his hair. And Derek knew for a fact that sometimes they stuck together when he cried, making Stiles look all the more heartbroken. 

 

Derek was plagued by the nightmares of Stiles’ abuse, watching Stiles being tortured by what _they_ had done and continued to do to him made him feel all the sins of his life. There was an ache in his heart, a familiar deep throbbing he knew would remain there the rest of his life. He wanted to help Stiles in every way he could, even in the smallest ways. So he had held out his hand like he’d done so many nights in the hospital. 

 

Through the next few minutes Stiles turned and tossed in bed, shifting closer and closer to Derek until he was flush against his side. His lips were slightly parted, warm breath gusting over Derek’s shoulder. Derek shut his eyes and cradled him close, aching at the way he fit. Stiles’ hand remained in his, in an all too familiar way. 

 

_How do you say you were sorry when you get someone possessed?_

 

It looped around his head at odd times throughout his day, and if it tormented him that much then how much worse did Stiles had it?

 

All of them had been crying with victory that day; the one where everything should had been going right and instead went so wrong. The moment when the vampire had turned to dust and carried by the wind Derek had turned to Stiles just to see his body sag, almost in slow motion. He had been too late, and he could still remember the crack Stiles’s skull had made when connecting with the ground, how Derek’s heart threaten to beat out of his chest when he wouldn’t respond. Everyone gathered around them—Stiles’s friends and his, as well as his sisters—until the ambulance had taken Stiles away. 

 

Two days later, they still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. The doctors couldn’t explain why he wasn’t waking up, merely that he’d fallen into a coma, but no reason as to _why_. There wasn’t any brain damage, despite the blow, or any injuries in his body. One of the nurses who spent the most time with Stiles had told the Sheriff all of this, his face falling with each word. Derek had been updated in each of his progress, or lack of, as he eavesdropped on every conversation that dealt with Stiles. He could hear what Stiles would have said about that, _You creep, you totally care_. The only time he didn’t tune into hear Stiles’ heartbeat or into the room’s noise was when, in hushed tones, the Sheriff pleaded for Stiles to wake up, that he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , do this without him. 

 

When five days had passed, Derek couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Let another person die because of him. His mother had spoken of someone she trusted deeply, and when Stiles had gone to that very person, he had stubbornly refused to go with him. The knowledge that someone who had once known his mother still walked while she didn’t had hurt in ways he couldn’t explain.

 

“I need your help,” Derek said to the man in the lab coat. Deaton didn’t seem surprised to see him, giving him a nod before directing him to follow him. They talked, not about the past or anything related to his family, but of Stiles. He was in the know of everything that had happened with the vampire, had aided them with knowledge of old mythology and weaponry. When he got to the part of Stiles falling, like strings cut from a puppet, Deaton had grimaced, confirming what Derek had suspected all along—it wasn’t _natural_.

 

“A consequence,” Deaton said cryptically. He tended to voice everything with dramatic flair, seriousness dripping from every word. “Everything comes with a price, Derek. When Stiles accepted the Adze into his body, he didn’t just give it his flesh. It was total consumption for the vampire—mind, body and soul. When did you say he fainted, for a lack of a better word?”

 

“We had just staked the vampire. It turned to dust and then he just...crumpled.”

 

“Yes,” Deaton went over to his desk, picking up a book and quickly leafing through it. “Accepting this kind of vampire is trickier than just killing it. Willingly letting it possess a person means death in most cases. Stiles should be dead, certainly. His body became a host. A vessel. Yet, he’s fallen into a coma.”

 

The vet’s voice was intrigued, mussing at himself more than talking to Derek. “You mean to tell me that this skinny, defenseless kid is strong enough to live. That he’s not dying, but fighting for his life?”

 

One of Stiles’s best friend had something similar just days earlier. Lydia had found him sitting next to he hospital bed, the tips of his fingers grazing Stiles’. Visitation hours were drawing to an end, and he hadn’t expected anyone else after the Sheriff had been called in an emergency. So when the clacking of heels sounded down the hallway all he had time for was to take his hand away. 

 

She had pulled her mouth into a small smile, coming around Stiles’s other side and looking down at him. Never any pity, but with fondness. “Stiles isn’t weak,” another forced smile, creating brackets around her mouth. “That he can hurt from such minor things.”

 

That was all she had said, then she had bent down to Stiles’ face and placed a quick kiss and left. 

 

“Yes, he’s fighting, but with who is the question we should be asking.” Deaton was saying. Derek didn’t offer any suggestions, riding out Deaton’s train of thought. “Think, Derek.”

 

He knew that they had invaded his mind. Jennifer and the Adze had possessed Stiles, a violation was what it had truly been. Weeks and weeks of his mind being abused, affecting his perception, his sense of self, of who he was, of his safety. He hadn’t realize until it was too late, hadn’t even known he had been possessed until all he could do was allow them in or die. The things he had done and seen had shaken him. Traumatized him.

 

“Him. He’s fighting himself,” 

 

Deaton nodded, sagely. “That’s the most dangerous opponent. Fighting himself and to live, and he won’t let himself leave.”

 

“Leave? From where?”

 

“His mind. He’s in coma, because he’s stuck in his own mind. When the Adze left his body, the space Stiles must have occupied was just a box, and getting out of it seems to prove even more difficult than getting in.”

 

It all sounded complicated and more trouble than Derek wanted. But Stiles was on the verge of dying because of him, because he’d saved them all. He had helped Derek when he shouldn’t have. “What do I have to do?”

 

For someone who had just that morning been told of Stiles’s situation, Deaton laid a perfectly, detailed plan for Derek. They had a very small window to do everything, and an extensive list for carrying it out, but Derek was willing to do anything to get Stiles back. Even going to his sister for help, and exposing their family’s secrets. 

 

That night after coming back from talking with Laura, Derek retook his spot next to Stiles, anchoring himself to Stiles’s hand. “Hey. I’m here.” 

 

Despite him being possessed since meeting Derek, Stiles always had this vibrant disposition, it had to be, because how else could he explain that the Stiles laying on the bed wasn’t the Stiles he knew. That the solemn, quite, vacant Stiles was something deeply wrong with the picture before him. Derek now knew that half the things Stiles had said in the past weren’t him, but Stiles had been present, no matter how small and flickering it had been. Knew that there was this constant thrumming to him that he’d come to know, a kind of vibration that couldn’t be contained, nor explained. 

 

Had he snuffed out the spark that usually lit him up so vividly? Had he been so selfish to rob the world of such a sight?

 

“Hey,” He started again, a tingling sensation in his nose. His sinuses acting up, probably. “It’s fine. Everything—you, you’re going to be fine, Stiles.” His voice tight, tense, like he was trying to be neutral but couldn’t quite make it. Like the tears prickling behind his lids were tittering close to falling. He wanted to apologize, profusely and lengthly, for Stiles to wake up hearing how sorry he truly was, how grateful. 

 

Never had he been more wrong than when he called Stiles a ‘defenseless kid,’ because no one had shown more valor and strength than the guy on the hospital bed. A guy who until a couple weeks ago didn’t know him, didn’t owe him anything, offered his help and time for someone that had caused him the biggest pain and disappointment, probably. 

 

Removing the tubes attached to Stiles wasn’t going to pose a problem, but getting clothes on him was entirely another question. Taking the sheriff’s kid wouldn’t be easy either; first, everyone knew who Stiles was, and second, Derek didn’t exactly call for friendliness. He would probably be arrested just for carrying an unconscious guy, but if they found out who the guy was then it might make it a federal prison. 

 

With as much care as he could, he hefted Stiles’ weight on his arms. Making sure he hadn’t disturbed him, he glanced at his face.

 

“Where do you think you’re taking my son?” A stern, but tired voice came from behind him. A voice, sounding like ice trickling down his spine, had the delicate package in his arms almost dropping.

 

“Sheriff,” Derek tried not to gulp. “I can explain.”

 

“Please do,”

 

He does. The plan had been to bring Stiles to Deaton’s without any suspicions, not a word to anybody, but in the face of such an authoritative man, Derek had no choice. Stiles would probably kill him—were he awake, and that’s why Derek needs him back. He’s probably going to hate him and never talk to him after he revealed the supernatural world to the Sheriff. From what he’s heard from Stiles, he loves his father more than anything in the world, right there just a bit higher than Scott, but he worries and cares after his dad. Letting him know the dangers of this world, and the one that got him in the hospital might not be his smartest decision in a while, but between saving Stiles and making a first impression, well, no contest there.

 

Letting Laura know what was going on with all the murders hadn’t been his idea either, hadn’t even told her himself. Now, willingly, he tells the Sheriff everything, as much as he can in as little time. He shows him, more than anything, because otherwise he might not believe him and they don’t have time to talk it out, to lay facts and truths and myths on the table. 

 

When he’s transformed back to his human form, and the silence is stretched thin, the Sheriff says, “That explains a lot. Finding his ‘detective board’ inside his closet, scribbled with words like Adze and Preserve had me thinking he was…”

 

To say the Sheriff looked exhausted and drained would be an understatement, and were he a man of words he’d offer some platitudes or talks of consolations. But that wasn’t him. How the Sheriff let him walk out with Stiles was still a mystery to him; the very man who’d done that to his son. “I’ll get him back, sir.”

 

Back at Deaton’s, Laura stood waiting for him and Stiles. Deaton had spoken of transferring memories, how werewolves claws could do an exchange, but also enter the mind of someone. His older sister knew more about werewolves and their power, as she had been trained to one day be the alpha of their pack. He didn’t necessarily need Laura to get into Stiles’s mind, but he needed her to get out. 

 

“Are you sure about this, Derek?” Laura fidgeted as he and Deaton strapped Stiles to a chair. “You can get lost in there as well.”

 

“That’s why I need you here,”

 

She nodded, and went to stand next to Deaton, while Derek moved to stand behind Stiles. Gratitude and anxiety warred in him as he saw the nervousness displayed in his sister’s face. Though he knew Laura would do anything for him, Derek didn’t want to cause her anymore worries, and that’s all he had done for a while. More so since getting back to town. Cora would’ve been there too, had she known, but two sisters worrying after him would be more than he could handle.

 

****

Claws slicing skin was one thing. Piercing the flesh painstakingly slow, rooting in there, was an entirely different one. Derek tried to keep his eyes open, but when his and Stiles’ mind connected, it felt like he had been sucked in, and what lay in front of him was now his reality.

 

Something had gone wrong. 

 

_It didn’t work_ , Derek thought as he stood in the middle of a busy hospital hallway. Nurses, and doctors rushed all around him. He quickly went to where Stiles was hospitalized, only to find a woman and a child in the room. He could swear he knew exactly where Stiles’ room was, had memorized every route and shortcut to it. 

 

When he tried to leave something blocked his way. The woman he assumed was the mother didn’t glance his way. Neither did the boy, he simply held her hands in his smaller ones. Time seem to lapse without notice, minutes could be hours and hours could be moments. Through it all he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the kid’s face, but the woman’s lovely face went slack as she fell asleep. It was then that the boy pillowed his face in his mom’s stomach. His slim shoulders quaking as soft sobs wracked though his body.

 

A loud beep shrilled from one of the machines and suddenly the room was a bustle of noises and doctors and nurses circulating the room. Derek caught the retreating back of the boy as he was taken by one of nurses. “Mom! No. Mom!” he writhed against the hold of the nurse, his yells caught off by his own weeping. Derek tried to get around the doctors in the room, getting to to the door just in time for the boy to start turning, when the door slammed shut in his face.

 

Dark rooms he didn’t recognize fled past him, until he came to a stop before a closed door. The place felt empty and cold, surely a warning of what was to come. Moving in a circle, he took in his surroundings. Walking over to another door, he took a look of the outside and saw stairs leading to a bright downstairs. Stiles’ childhood house, he recognized. The last days before he ended up in the hospital Stiles had been staying over at his dad’s. Derek had often dropped Stiles off there and sometimes he’d pass by to make sure he was okay.

 

In a dream, everything was disoriented. He couldn’t perceive much. Not warmth, or scent, nor the memories in it. Things didn’t make sense, and what could appear in front of him in a second might be gone the next. 

 

When he went back to the door that had been sealed shut now was ajar. The sound of gushing water filtering through the gap.

 

“Mom?” Stiles’ worried voice came from outside the room. “Mom, where are you? The door was open, I could have been a burglar far all you know.” 

 

Before Derek could take a step, Stiles entered the bedroom that Derek hadn’t been able to make its features out just moments earlier. The room was shrouded in the darkness, and Stiles seem to just stand there, looking at the same door that Derek had been about to walk through. 

 

“Stiles,” Derek started, but Stiles’ hand was now in the doorknob. Stiles’ shook then, his face draining of color.

 

It wasn’t Derek running a moment later, and it wasn’t him screaming. The deafening sound of pain piercing the room like a punch in the gut. Something so heart-wrenching should never be heard, but it just kept going and going and going, echoing all around him. Derek’s sensitive ears couldn’t take much more of it.

 

His mouth opened and closed, and he tried to breathe as his mind screamed. He looked up, focusing on the figures at the bathtub, his relief at seeing Stiles lasting for only a moment. 

 

Stiles screams turned to body-wrenching sobs, while he rocked his mom’s body, fingers stroking along her arms. His knees went out from underneath him, landing hard on the bathroom tiles. He could have broken bones for all he cared at that moment, because he just kept crying out. His grief too heavy to hold them up. Everything Stiles was experiencing, so was Derek. 

 

 

When Derek got within touching distance, he not only heard, but saw the hardest heartbreak etched in Stiles’s face. Derek’s chest heaved, battling all of his and Stile’s emotions combined. Without thinking about it, he stretched a hand and rested it on Stiles’s shoulder. Not caring if he felt it or if it made any difference. At that moment all he wanted was to get Stiles back, to not let him relieve any of this nightmare for a second longer.

 

Instead, his hand drifted through air, and where a moment ago had been darkness and grimness, was then light and the life of the forest. Pivoting, Derek stomped through the flowers at his feet.

 

Younger, Derek had loved the forest at his backyard. He could spend an entire day lost in the woods, and not have a care in the world. Not that he truly could be lost, since he knew every nook and cranny there was, that and the fact he could sense his way back home. One particular place, though, was his absolute favorite. It was in the middle of a meadow on the crest of a hill, in a rock that overlooked the span of an entire field, and when he stood on it he could see off a cliff and into the underlaying woods. 

 

Seeing it in Stiles’s mind had a jarring effect on him. Not too many people, if any, passed through there. Most of the preserve was highly dangerous; people rarely venturing too far in. Teenager’s rendezvous still not braving the wildness. So when a young boy’s head appeared from the thick of the tress out on to the field, it was more than a little surprising.

 

He _remembered_ this, though. The flashback and memories hitting him all at once, before him and in his mind. The first memory he had of Stiles. 

 

The boy looked around nine or ten, steadfast on his feet, quickly making his way over to the rock. That’s when Derek saw him. _Him_ as in himself, or rather his teenaged version. There was no standing, joyously reigning over his section of the forest. Rather, he sat dejectedly, a glum expression darkening his features. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Doe eyes stared at his from below, both curious and worried. The teenaged Derek peeked up from his beneath his folded arms atop his knees. 

 

He hadn’t been in a mood to talk, especially not with a kid who wouldn’t understand, he recalled. Until that day, Young Derek hadn’t realized how vastly different _he_ was, and that in some ways his life wasn’t his. It was on that day that everything shifted for him, changed him. 

 

The boy—Stiles—held his hands behind his back. Young Derek tried not to pay attention to him, but the boy kept glancing up at him and then at the ground. Tilting his head, Young Derek focused on him. Stiles appeared indecisive, a mirror of Young Derek’s sadness, only dimmer. Coming to a decision, the kid beamed up at him, taking the younger Derek aback. 

 

With a nod, he thrusted a purple flower at Young Derek. There was this despondence to the kid that even he recognized back then. But now he could identify that desolated look that no kid should ever experienced at that age. The mirror version of himself held himself still, stricken almost. Young Derek wavered until he leaned and tentatively took the gift from the kid.

 

Stiles beamed back at him, as if that small feat was the greatest hurdle he had overcome. Though something had told Derek that day that that hadn’t nor would be his the biggest problem. Nonetheless, the kid lightened up and then scaled the small rock and settle next to Derek. 

 

For a while, everything was still, save for the constant noise of the forest. It was a companionable silence that he never thought possible with someone he didn’t know. 

 

“Do you have a mom?” A rather innocent question, if not a little out of context. 

 

“Of course.” Young Derek answered. “Don’t you?”

 

Stiles blew out a long breath that sounded way too old for a kid his age. It reminded Derek of the weary sighs his father would let out when another pack would infringe on theirs. The sound of impending battle and chaos. 

 

Stiles climbed to his feet, just passing the sitting Derek by a few inches. Tilting his head up to the sun, Stiles closed his eyes. “Yes. My mom’s finally back. She wasn’t feeling too good. Dad said I should bring her something that would make her happy. He says she still needs a little bit more rest.”

 

Derek glanced down at the flowers, flexing his other hand. He balled his fist, fingers and the hint of claw piercing his skin. “Here,” Derek thrusted the flowers back at Stiles.

 

The boy shook his head, silken-looking strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. He slid of the rock and stood in front of Derek, taking the proffered hand and wrapping his little hand around it. “Dad sometimes brings her flowers and then they dance around the kitchen. She says flowers are for happiness. You look like you need some.”

 

Guileless doe eyes bore straight into his soul, even from the few feet away Derek stood from them—his younger version and Stiles—he could still feel the warmth from Stiles’ gaze.

 

It’s so sudden, much like the kid himself it seems, that Derek’s eye go comical. The kid circled Derek’s waist with his little arms, or at least tried to Stiles’ head not quite reaching. Stunned, he just let him. 

 

He might not have thought about that day on the field for years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t remember it or treasure it. That a kid who didn’t know anything about Derek, about the darkness and the peril Derek represented, would think about his wellbeing. That in seconds he could see his unhappiness when his mother couldn’t. Maybe he’d been too unguarded, shown too much which was just as dangerous, but for some reason that brought him a sense of reassurance. 

 

A shadow fell across the pair at the rock. Neither Young Derek nor Stiles looked up at his intrusion. As Derek went to reach for the kid, he made a run for the woods, without so much as a goodbye to his younger self. This time, Derek saw that Stiles had turned around, the corner of his lips curling into a soft smile, before breaking through to the dense woods. 

 

He still felt the biting sting that branded his palm that day and the next and the next. The imprint of the poisonous flower a stark reminder that pain was jarring in more ways than one, of the pleasure it had brought him despite the torture. Not that he liked the burn, but because someone had cared. Someone had chosen his happiness, had thought he deserved it. And because someone could be so giving, so selfless, so _good_. 

 

By the time he thought to go after Stiles, the kid was nowhere to be found. Derek meandered through the familiar forest, knowing his way around. And the knowledge that regardless of where he ended up he’d find Stiles.

 

Everything seemed orchestrated to lead to the inevitable scene Stiles was living at the moment, he realized.

 

“This isn’t you, Stiles,” Lydia’s rigid voice came from somewhere in the woods. Near, it sounded. “You have to fight it. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than them.”

 

A depraved laughter rang out, ringing through the still air. “Oh, I _know_ I’m stronger. Stronger than I’ve ever been, and I’m getting stronger every second I feel you suffering.”

 

Picking up his pace, he halted when he saw Lydia levitating. _No_. Something told him it was far more sinister than that. Especially when he saw blood trickling down her slender neck. Her neck craned at an awkward angle, the strain showing in her protruding veins. 

 

Lydia grimaced, pulling her lips into a thin line. “Stiles, _please_.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, until they blended and mixed with the blood pooling at her throat. 

 

He saw and he heard and he felt it, all at the same time. When Lydia’s body arched, the crack of her body echoing the snapping of a twig. The sound vibrating and rattling through Derek’s body. Her arms and legs swung limp. Time a molasses as the sway of her hair hypnotized Derek, seeing her identifiable strawberry blonde locks darkened with red. 

 

The world seemed painted in blood.

 

Shock must have taken over. All Derek could think about was how her body floated upside down, and the blood was getting into her mouth. 

 

Derek knew all the bones in the human body, recognize their distinct sound as the bent and cracked, the occasional dislocation of one, how it felt as one rubbed against the other and shifted to rearrange his other self. Could point out the largest bone in the wrist; locating the capitate toward the center of the wrist joint, could recall each time the coccyx arched and accommodated his new form to take place. 

 

In fact, he knew all too well how bones could bend, how much pressure was too much, too sudden for a bone to break and fracture. Information flooded his brain: pain locations, comminuted and compound fractures, healing time. How even an improperly clenched fist could result in injuries. 

 

Whimpers broke through the fog in Derek’s brain, then the low murmurings. “I’ve killed them all, all, _all,_ ” Stiles kneeled on the Nemeton, his head pressed to the wood, rocking ever so slightly while he continued to repeat the phrase. “ _They’re all dead._ ”

 

Stiles was devastation personified: anguish outlining the curve of his spine, agony staining his hands crimson. The vile and vicious decisions marring the aura around him as a palpable thing before Derek’s wolf vision. He was a laceration to Derek’s heart. 

 

Derek didn’t grow up to be tender, his experiences had jaded him far too much for him to render a tender touch. But he felt a compulsion to take Stiles into his arms and shield him from everything, even himself, From the debris of his desolation. Conceivably, because it was him who had lead Stiles to that point. 

 

Another part of him feared that he cared enough to mourn all that they had taken from Stiles, namely his will. 

 

“Stiles. I’m here, it’s time to come home.” Nothing happened, not even the wind stirred. “Your dad is waiting for you, and Lydia, and Crystal. And I’m sure your hero friend will want to see you when he comes back.

 

“I know you’ll want to see him too,” Derek added. “You’ll want to see them all again, because you love them and they love you.”

 

For the longest time, he didn’t know what to do. There was no manual or instruction for this part. He didn’t attempt to call for Stiles anymore. Instead, he swaddled Stiles up. Taking him into his arms and then atop his folded legs. 

 

Stiles was like ash in his hands, his body unresponsive and manipulable to the touch.“Please come home.” Wetness soaked through his shirt, his chest growing damp where Stiles head was cushioned. “Come home with me.”

 

It was his last resort, and the last thing Derek asked of Stiles before they made it back home with a gasp and the piercing pain flaring through his entire body. Back to the painful reminder of their reality. Despite all that awaited them, he had never felt such relief. 

 

****

 

“I saw you.” Stiles spoke, a rough, ragged whisper tearing across Derek’s heart. “You looked worried and you reached out your hand to me. You stood there, calling my name, over and over.”

 

“You came back for me, Derek.” And he said that as if it’s the most wondrous thing to ever have happened to him.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have an notes/theories/thoughts leave me a comment and tell me what you thought of the chapter. I appreciate kudos/comments/hugs/glomps/cookies!


	3. A Hale of a Chapter

**Chapter Three**

 

Heat furled around Stiles and he buried into it for a second. The sheets clinging to him and the pillow cushioning his head smelled familiar but he couldn’t figure out why in his sleep-added state.He’d slept roughly five and a half hours, and though he was groggy and slightly nauseated, he could tell he was done resting. The pressing, pleasing weight of sleep had pulled him into asleep far longer than he had for weeks. 

 

With a bone-cracking stretch, he sat up in bed, eyes still closed. Three things came to his mind when he unglued his eyes open to an unfamiliar room. One, he was alone. The only evidence that someone had been there and Stiles hadn’t dreamt up the whole night before were the rumpled sheets that were warm to the touch. Two, he had _slept_ with Derek, okay not _slept slept_ but resting eyes, body in a horizontal position no tango whatsoever done kind of slept. And three, the one that surprised him the most and made him feel almost sorry for himself— because he was already having problems at such a young age,—was that things were _finally_ stirring down below, namely the morning wood that had been absent as of lately. 

 

It seemed wrong and inappropriate to do anything about it, though it wasn’t going to be much since his dick already seemed to be flagging. He flopped back into the fluffy sheets with a indignant huff when it went back to its perpetual state. Dammit, he was young! This shouldn’t be happening quiet yet, and not for a long time. There was something pathetic about him moping around in a bed, pulling his boxers away from the offending body part in question and peeking at it like some circus show. Yeah, nothing. Not even a twitch, the nerve. 

 

The fresh smell of java drifting through the vents shook him out of his funk and out of bed. All the way downstairs where Derek puttered around the kitchen. With a glance over his shoulder and a quick nod, he said, “Coffee or juice? Food will be ready in a few minutes.” 

 

“Coffee s’fine,” Stiles replied, taking a seat in the already set table. The white glossy table where a couple weeks back they had paper mapping across the entire surface now had white plates, forks and napkins. Normal stuff. 

 

It was funny how he had been there a few times before, but hadn’t really noticed Derek’s apartment.Perhaps that should have been a clue that something had been wrong. Stiles never went anywhere without a good amount of curiosity nagging him to at least snoop around. Without a possession muddling his mind, he took in the floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors and exposed bricks. 

 

Though Derek gave the loft a rather spartan look, almost as if he wasn’t quiet sure if he was moving in all together, the high ceilings and open space made it feel like those minimalist styled places he often saw on Tumblr. Especially when he spotted the hanging bulbs near the kitchen. Either the place came like that or Derek planned to stay a little while longer. The thought hit Stiles with an unexpected lurch of happiness. 

 

Laden with their plates Derek motioned for Stiles to get their coffee. They both sat and ate in relative silence for a few minutes, but Stiles wasn’t fond of silence as much as Derek seemed to crave it. He blew away the trails of steam curling from the surface of his coffee. “I’m going with you to Brewed,” Not a second later, Stiles added, “hmm, this is as good as Brewed’s. Holy shit. Teach me the ways of the nectar of God’s.”

 

Derek wasn’t impressed by either statements, he just kept on stuffing his face with eggs and bacon. “We don’t offer babysitting,” Derek smirked, little toast crumbs dusting his scruff. Even that looked charming on him, the asshole.

 

“Ha. Jerk. Anyways, I got nothing to do, schools out and—” Heart sinking, he stopped mid-sentence. Right, _and I tried to kill my best friends, so there’s that._ Stiles wrapped his hands around his steaming cup, as if warming his hands.

 

“Do whatever you want, Stiles,” Derek said as he polished off the last of his food. “But you’re not just going to loiter around. Be ready to be worked over.”

 

“By you?” Stiles quipped back salaciously, and by the arch of Derek’s eyebrows it hadn’t been missed. 

 

Derek gave back as good as he got, “Well, you won’t have time to do anything else by the time I’m done with you.”

 

Stiles’ jaw snapped shut with an audible click, absolutely speechless. “I—okay…okay. Wow. Uh.” So not completely speechless, but definitely dumbstruck, which was basically the same thing. 

 

He jerked up his sweatpants as he stood. He’d borrowed them from Derek since they were soft, and loose. Already he was loath to let them go. “Let’s go, let’s go. I’m _so_ ready.” 

 

****

 

After cleaning up—Stiles washing, since Derek had done the cooking, and Derek taking a shower—Derek had dropped him off at home. His dad was off working so there wasn’t a chance for an awkward run in, and really he didn’t know how to go about explaining where he had been. 

 

The truth was Stiles was a pro at avoidance. He hated having to explore and explain his feelings, he almost wished they could just move past it. But that was the selfish part of him, the part that was ashamed, and the part he hated the most about him. It was also the coward’s part of him, the part that was afraid. And he was tired of being afraid. Of himself and the shadows that lurked everywhere he turned. 

 

Taking the quickest shower known to man, he quickly got dressed and headed back out towards Brewed. He knew he shouldn’t get attached to Derek, for many reasons. One being that there was past _feelings_ there that not even Derek himself knew about. Another: that he might develop codependency, especially after a trauma. He knew all of this, but staying away was proving to be harder than he anticipated. 

 

There was just something about Derek. Maybe it was that no matter what happened he never stopped being himself; he didn’t try to talk him into _talking_ , or coddling him with sympathy. Like a storm in the middle of summer, his mood quickly clouded.Perking up only when he arrived at the Brewed and Cora and Laura began lobbing question at him.

 

“You’re an idiot.” Cora glared at him from behind the pastries counter. He was barely able to keep a straight face at her irked tone. “Only you would get yourself possessed.”

 

“Was that like a family mantra for you Hales? I swear all of you say that line in exactly the same tone, and with the same dry sarcastic humor.” 

 

Actually, the first time he had seen Laura again he thought she was Derek’s girlfriend and he had been maybe just a teeny tiny bit jealous—of who he still hadn’t decided— and when confronted with a beautiful goddess who could doubled as a movie star, well, his mouth did what it does best—

 

_“You know, our love would never go out of Stiles,”_ He’d said with a wink in Laura’s direction. Unimpressed, she had fired back with, _“You’re an idiot, Stiles.”_ That’s when everything fell into place. The hair color, the expressive eyebrows, and that final sentence delivered in almost the exact same way as a certain grumpy cat. 

 

Now, Cora merely rolled her eyes at him. That seemed to be her general reaction to everything that came out of his mouth, and just his general being. “Cora,” Laura warned.She came around to his side of the counter and bumped shoulder with him, then said with a conspiratorial wink, “Don’t buy into her act, she was worried.”

 

There was a scoff at that, “Please. Stiles is a danger to us all. He’s even a danger to himself. Only you,” she pointed at Stiles, “would fall headfirst in to the paranormal without even trying.” 

 

Stiles laced his arms on the bar top and clasped his hands together as his eyes shifted past her to see Derek push through the doors of the back room. The threatening thunderstorm that had been brewing inside of him not too long ago dispersed at the sight of him. It was the sun in the middle of a misty rainy day, that ethereal moment when every was bathed in gold and all you wanted to do was go outside and do something ridiculous like _twirl_ , for fucking sakes. 

 

The hot angry stare Derek was leveling at him was doing stuff to him, and he smiled involuntary. “Hi,” he uttered like the idiot they kept calling him, but when faced with a face like Derek’s one forgot themselves. It was excusable. 

 

Stiles brought his eyes back to Cora’s and noticed a sparkle in them. He cleared his throat at the same time that Derek arched an eyebrow at him and said, “Distracting the employees already, are we?”

 

“It isn’t my fault that they catch sight of me and gravitate towards me. S’ tough, dude, being so likeable. Which explains even the supernatural being attracted _to me_. There’s a quote and everything. Something about charm and love and irresistible force and attraction and the universe. Or the law of attraction. It could’ve been the irresistible law of the universe. But where’s the gravitation. Hmm. How do people quote quotes?” 

 

Laura bursted out a laugh and Cora sneered at him. “ _Please_ ,” Cora turned to Derek, “take him far far away.”

 

“Yes, Derek, take me.” 

 

“Okay, ew.” Cora scrunched up her face and flicked his nose. 

 

A line was beginning to form being him and he remembered how a few weeks back Cora had threatened to kick him out for the exact thing. She was going on how every time he came in a line that trailed past the door formed. It wasn’t not true, he’d to give her that. 

 

He was being steered away from the registers before he could so much as think up a retaliation. “Here,” Derek thrusted a coffee mug at him and then let go, expecting Stiles to follow him. 

He did. 

 

He kinda always did. 

 

The mystery section of the bookstore could be a mystery in itself, it was almost like a secret passage without a mechanism behind it. Where the crossword puzzles and other activity books were located, bookshelves were strategically positioned.A labyrinth of bookshelves formed and right where the maze books were shelved staircase lead the way downstairs. 

 

Back during their investigation stage, he and Derek spent hours holed up down there. Not many ventured into that section. Which was perfect for Stiles since that quickly became his favorite part in the whole store. It felt like _theirs_. It felt like a secret shared between Derek and Stiles, and he didn’t want anyone else privy to it. 

 

He went directly to the stack of pillows in the corners and plunk down on them. The dark wood floors reached even down here, so the pillows added an extra cushion to his otherwise would be sore butt. 

 

Picking a book at a random, he started flipping the pages carelessly while he took a sip of his coffee. Derek was coming down the stairs again, with a stack of books and a binder. That was another reason Stiles like it here. Because _Derek_ liked it down here the best. 

 

He was turning the paper cup of in his hand when he noticed the illustration on it. Brewed was known for many things; the decor, the crazy coffee names, the almost movie-star staff, and the coffee cups amongst other things.

 

Every cup was personalized with drawings or quotes. He’d seen the dark guy in many illustrations before, but this time, he sat sprawled, one leg drawn up in an arrogant pose, and Zeus’ name in bold white letters. 

 

“Hey,” he drew it out, still in awe of the drawing. The details in the throne and the almost willowy feel to “Zeus” toga, even the greek pattern in the background held his attention. With a gold foil it would’ve given it an extra effect, but since this was a coffee cup and not a print it was still short of amazing. “What coffee did you get me and _who_ does this illustrations?”

 

They had to be custom made. He could recognize the style now, even if the artist tried all sorts of stuff. Sometimes it would be steampunk, a twist to fairytales, pop style that was both simple and innovative. All of the cups now collected on top of his desk, on top of his bookshelf, inside the bookshelf, on his drawers. Hell, he even flatted open one and pinned it to his wall. 

 

It was his _absolute_ favorite. 

 

He looked up from his inspection, and wasn’t that a sight. Derek’s lips quirked in a half smile, and Stiles’ mouth parted. Stiles almost didn’t catch what Derek responded with, what with the rare sight of his mouth doing something other than frowning or staying in its inexpressive position. 

 

Derek coughed— and holy shit, his cheeks slightly pinked up. “It’s Reyes of Sunshine.” When he said it he intoned the ‘rays’ in Reyes. True to Brewed Awakening’s style, it was a play on words and punny. His kind of humor. If a little more cheery, and a lot cheesy. 

 

 

Enough time lapsed that when Derek continued, if a little haltingly, he’d almost forgotten he had asked anything else. Though it seemed like Derek was pulling teeth, he spoke with pride. “The illustrator… ’s’Erica Reyes.” Derek plowed on, not meeting Stiles’ knowing stare. “Coincidentally, the guy pictured in the cup is Boyd. Her and Boyd do all the cups here at Brewed; well, she illustrates and he does the typography.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, as did his lips. He couldn’t not tease Derek—the, surprisingly, adorable dork. “You _nerd._ Oh my god, _you_ name the cup after her. Did you name any other? Ooh, bet you coined ‘Fuzzy Situation,’ hmm…better yet ‘Hale of a Storm.’ You did, didn’t you? You’re such a dork, Derek Hale.” 

 

That brought Derek straight back, eyes like arrows, cobalt tipped and deadly sharp. The glare wasn’t meant to be anything other than lethal, the standard Hale warning. Nobody, though, could ever say that Stiles reacted normal to a life-threatening situation. He shifted in place, discreetly placing a pillow on his laps, in case his body decided to… _perk up_.

 

“It’s okay you know. Totally fine by me, with me, over me. Just didn’t know you had the pun powers within you. Though, I will tell you I would have gone with ‘Hale of a Catch’ myself. Clever and a pick-up line all in one. I’ll even let you try it on me. Come on, lay it on me.” Stiles wiggled his eyebrows.

 

“You’re an idiot.” Derek clipped out, snatched _the_ pillow and aimed it at Stiles’ head. “Let me work or I’m kicking you out.”

 

“So rude, and here I’m trying to stroke your delicate pun-making ego.”

 

“I don’t remember it needing any.”

 

“I could stroke something else.”

 

Derek was a contradiction in itself; Stiles could never quiet figure him out. He was dismissive, emotionally stunted, and a jerk at times. If he didn’t want to respond to something and he didn’t feel obliged to do so, he would leave you talking in the middle of a one-sided conversation. Hell, he rarely said more than a few words in hours, and it had taken weeks for him to share anything with Stiles. Even the murders, and his hairy predicament, was all by pure coincidence and diligence on Stiles’ part that he was in the known. And that he was part of the murders, but still, it had taken all of nagging and prodding. 

 

Then, there were those times, like now, when Derek let Stiles prattle on and on. Sure, he’d puff and huff and threaten with bodily-harm but that’s all it was—air. A waste of breath. 

 

Pulling at a thread in a pillow, he casually—not so casually—asked, “Erica Reyes, is she like a friend of yours, or you just contracted her while you were in New York?”

 

Across from him, Derek went over invoices. No doubt handling the inner-workings of Brewed. “Both. I meet her in a photography class. It wasn’t until I saw her in the food court, doodling in a sketch pad, that she showed me some of her work. When Laura came up with the bookstore, book cafe—still don’t know what hybrid name to call it—she wanted it to stand out. Still have that homely library feeling and something that was our own. Believe it or not, the whole pun in coffee names was Cora. Coffee cups were mine.”

 

This was the most information Derek had ever given willingly. The longest Stiles had gone without saying something to keep the conversation going between them. Hell no was he doing anything to disturb that even if he did want to interrupt and ask him how they came up with a bookstore, why they had come back to Beacon Hills after so long, why and where he was taking photography classes. Like photography, really. How. There was so much to who Derek was, is, and he wanted to know it all. To know him completely. 

 

Derek’s mouth slightly pulled up at the corners in a smile; anybody else would not have mistaken it for one. “Erica was ecstatic when I asked her, though she masked it by trying to get me to cough up a lung with the price,” he rolled his eyes. “And since with Erica you kind of get Boyd as deal package, not to mention the talented typographer that he is, and so we all had a great deal. They also get me to answer their calls, using the business call guise.”

 

Really, where did he start? Taking a big breath, and ready to lunch into his proverbialverbal attacks, i.e asking questions, Derek put up a hand. He, honest to God, put up his hand and Stiles was so caught off guard that his jaw indignantly dropped. Exactly like Charlie in Good Luck Charlie. “Stop, Stiles. I can already hear it, and I really need to catch up on work. Read or something. Silently,” he added. 

 

A hand. The hand. The stop hand had stopped his flow. Angrily, he shelved the book by his feet and then stood. Derek didn’t glance up, he could be leaving and it’d be all his fault, not that he seemed to care. 

 

Fine. 

 

Grabbing another book at random, he started to read. Not because Derek had told him to. He _wanted_ to, okay. At first, he merely read to read, but like most books, the story engrossed him that time escaped him. Soon, the characters had him laughing out loud even when the tension mounted. 

 

He laid on his pillow bed, the book held up in the air. Time became words build on other words that strung up into sentences, and then to a story, to an adventure. 

 

“Stiles,” his name, said in a rough command scared the living daylight out of him that the brick of a book punched him in the face. That’s right, the book was to blame. He flailed about for a couple of moments as he struggled to straighten up. 

 

“Wha?” he mumbled. Drowsily, distracted, as if coming out of a dream. Or another world. When the staring continued, he repeated, “what,” this time more coherently.

“You,” Derek pointed, making a circling motion, as if encompassing him. “You’re distracting.” 

 

Stiles was taken a back, if a bit of offended. Derek had said it as if with a bad taste in his mouth, with an indignation that even Derek hadn’t believed if his facial expression were anything to go by. With his mind still in another world, and quiet affronted he looked back at Derek. “Me? But ‘am reading, just like you said.”

 

That totally sounded like he followed his orders. Which he didn’t. 

 

“Yes. No. Well, not really. You keep mumbling, and laughing, and gasping every time there’s a plot twist, which is probably every two chapters. I know this because you literally say ‘No!’ and that you totally called it since chapter two.When you turn the page you do it so violently I’m scared the pages will rip, remember those are for sale, by the way.” By this point Stiles was holding the hardcover against his chest, bitting his lip against a smile, his eyes wide in shock. 

 

Derek continued, much to Stiles’ amazed brain, mind—hell, ears. “Look at the pillows! you’ve taken them all under you. And—and you. Reading should not be _that_ loud.”

 

“Dude,” Stiles breathed when Derek ran out of breath. The grumpy guy himself stunned by his own tirade. His massive chest rising up and down in a decidedly, equally rant-inducing motion, and he wasn’t starting his own. “Chapter two told me everything, talk about showing the golden cookie. I mean it was good, but I need a challenge you know what I mean? You can’t have some weird fanatic say some weird fanatic stuff and not expect the reader to not suspect him.”

 

There was a thump when Derek banged his forehead on the desk. Stiles was _thrilled_. “ Oh come on, big guy. Were it not for me you’d be falling asleep on that paperwork. I’m providing excellent commentary, and a live broadcast book review. Three-point star worthy; would recommend for a paperwork kind of day.”

 

“Tell me more. I have nothing to do,” Derek said in a droll voice. Stiles took the bait, annoyingly reading him the blurb. Doing his best audiobook voice. 

 

From his spot in the cushioned floor, he saw Derek making his way over. The guy’s hip moved like liquid sex. Now that was distracting as hell, and you didn’t see him going into breakdown mode. 

 

Yet. He probably would if Derek’s body moved against him. Or in him. He really wasn’t picky, not with those options. Shit, so not the time to get aroused. The guy would smell it on him faster than Stiles’ would notice it. Discreetly, he sniffed himself. 

 

Raising his chin, he aimed gleaming eyes at Derek. “Joining me?”

 

Derek leaned down, so close that the mutable layers of green and gold that Stiles couldn’t bring himself to call hazel were directly in front of him. They were and they weren’t; it was an uncomplicated description and one that didn’t even come close. 

 

Generally, his mind worked at such a speed that he could be jerking off and finishing his chemistry homework if need be; why leave something for tomorrow when he could do it at the same time. Scott hated when he did that, he’d even taken to asking him if he was doing anything else when texting him. It was _one_ time, and it had been Scott’s fault. His phone was about to tumble off his desk from all the buzzing, and maybe his grammar had been an indicator, especially when in his peak his finger slid to the call icon and Scott got an earful. 

 

Yeah, not their best moment, but then not their worst moment. Those had been epic and tragic and scarring. 

 

The point, though, was that usually his brain could be creating an apocalypse survival plan, thinking of how he’d fare without internet or the essential like what would happen with condoms and lube, would they be in high demand? He could imagine himself hunting for food and water and hesitating over the different flavors, while say a big hairy guy with startling green eyes kept the zombies at bay. It would be them against the world, hunters and lovers. 

 

Right then, the only thing in his mind was how those eyes could exist and how he could get Derek to just stay there for the next, _I don’t know, the rest of our lives_. He’d never get bored of them, of him. Except it really wasn’t more than a few second, because Derek’s hand shot down and snatched the book that had fallen on his lap, forgotten, and went back to his desk. 

 

Accusations were a big deal; last semester his professor, Finstock, accused him of making everyone in his class take a period information survey to distract them from his lecture on the analysis of quantitative data in something. True, he wasn’t paying much attention. False, he never passed any survey. When it got to him, he’d read over it, clearly another social experiment college students were so fond of.And if he saw some mistakes and fixed them, well, he was doing his civil duty. It was a social sciences class, after all. 

 

After he’d done a second round of the _correct_ survey, and Finstock catching wind of something other than frequency distributions being discussed, he’d looked up and with a precision of a man on a hunt had pointed at Stiles. His chicken scrawl had given him away. 

 

Long story short: Finstock had cut him a new one—ew, what an imagery—and for the next two weeks Stiles had brought in the randomest survey questionnaires he could think up. His favorite had been on sex toys, and wow, did he have some kinky classmates. But he had done it just to prove a point.

 

Point? Have it be true. 

 

Casually, he started roaming the bookshelves, picking some books here and there. His arms weighted down by the heavy mass of hardcovers and paperbacks. Keeping the casualness, he rounded a shelf and held a book in front of his face. Then, he pivoted, and went through another row of shelves and came out with a different book pressed at his profile. Throwing in a little Egyptian action, which he was sure looked more of limbs than any coordination. Whatever. 

 

Again and again he did this; a book crushed at chin level, one in a Phantom of the Opera-esque, another covering everything but his chin. Derek had took notice by the first one, no doubt.All the books had some kind of waxing crescent face to them, much like the popular Tumblr post. Some had some type of insect that he tried to put on his face, because, yeah, the only way he’d let them get near him.

 

But by the last couple poses, Derek had settled back on his chair and looked at Stiles. Not with a frown, not with his detached expression. A smile, however small they remained. 

 

He’d take the slight quirk of his mouth. That was a great start.

 

****

 

In the back of his mind, Stiles knew he was using Derek. 

 

Derek knew Stiles was using him. 

 

They said nothing and continued on as they were. It wasn’t the Adze kind of using, and there was some relief in that. But he knew all those hours spent with Derek wasn’t just to get closer to him, not at all because of his _past_. He knew it when his father told him Lydia had gone by the house yet again and he made up some below par excuse. When for the fifth week, he’d avoided Skype Wednesday’s with Scott (Stiles had come up with him, thank you). When his father had especially gotten home early to spend the evening with Stiles, but he had been over at Derek’s. 

 

Seeing pizza the next day had never made him feel sad. 

 

Life had rules. There’s probably some life handbook in Amazon that sells for twenty dollars and was written by some school professor who quoted it and demanded the book every semester. Students refused to buy it. 

 

But life had rules, and those rules were that everything had to be dealt with eventually. 

 

He should have known. Things change; they always have to change. 

 

One week later, after much annoyance on Stiles’ part, he had convinced Derek to go with him to The Lake. How he managed that boiled down to Cora and Laura being fed up when for perhaps the twentieth time he asked them to put up his drink names on the moon board. 

 

“ Can I get a Fuck you,” and “Its’s Finals Week,” would be a big hit, more if they all had shots of tequila in them. _They’ll see their errors soon and see the brilliance that my marketing branding,_ Stiles thought.

 

An hour after being kicked out— if he’s honest on what really happened—Stiles stared at the ripples the wind made on the water. Sunlight skimmed the surface and made it sparkle like diamonds. He sat transfixed, by the sight of the sunny day and Derek. Always by Derek these days, it seemed. 

 

Better to focus on that than to see where Stiles had lead them. Lydia might not visit her grandmother’s house often, if ever, but the imposing figure towers over him like a blanket of guilt. If not for the sun and its blinding brilliance he’d think he’d could see a shadow over the pier. 

He thought he’d left the hallucinations behind. 

 

There were a distance from _before_ , from where the red stained the bones of the earth. It wasn't nearly far enough. 

 

There, in a swath of trees, the forest dense around them. The silence of the preserve was unnerving. Branches swayed in the light wind, and leaves rustled. There, they kept moving. Derek not uttering a word. Stiles ignoring the obvious. Both escaping. 

 

“I thought you wanted to swim,” Derek sat propped against a wooden beam, a book dangling from his hand. A nerdy wet dream picture, all for Stiles’ eyes. 

 

“Maybe I just wanted to get you wet.”

 

“Don’t see much of either going on.”

 

Fluidly, decisively, he packed away the book. Then stretched up to his full height, and did that _thing._ The one with the arm reaching at his nape, pulling at his shirt, off and over his head. And Stiles just _stared_. He might have drooled. There was no evidence to that. 

 

Just as quickly, Derek ran and jumped into the water.Stiles’ pulse pounding in his ears as he waited for Derek to emerge. When he did he tauntingly called out,“Go. Jump.” The glint of mischief glistening like the waves that teased his muscles. His _wet_ muscles. 

 

“What? Just like this?” he smart mouthed, because this was Derek, and if Stiles’ didn’t get an eye roll then something was wrong. 

 

“Yeah, come on.” 

 

As he plunged into the water, the breath whooshed from Stiles’ lungs and seized up into the unexpected cold. 

 

Underneath, he swam around Derek’s scissoring legs. Bidding his time, he idled around and around him before pulling harshly at one of Derek’s feet. Derek glared daggers at Stiles when he popped up behind him, and lobbed Stiles with what could very well have been a bucket full of water. 

 

With a cry of war, Stiles started flinging water Derek’s way in waves. “You’re _such_ a child,” Derek responded, yet retaliated with an arm glide that momentarily blinded Stiles. Not enough for him to succumb to surrender. He started to splash in a deranged manner, pushing at the water lapping his hands, then switching to pitching and hurling it in Derek’s direction. All of this was done haphazardly and blindly, as Derek hadn’t let up on his assault and it had Stiles spluttering and scrunching his eyes shut to keep it at bay. 

 

“Okay, okay, okay! I’m drowning, you beast!” Really, he wouldn’t be surprised if that were possible. Damn werewolves superpowers; one surely being the best at water fights. 

 

And Derek smiled.That smile and a low rumble-laugh sent chills throughout Stiles’ body. “Say it.”

 

In a low, intimate voice, Stiles said, “ Say what?” Because he kinda would. He’d say anything at that moment. Derek held Stiles’ wrist in his own, stopping any movement, stopping any further attack. That’s all that it meant. Obviously.

 

“That you’re a loser, and I win and—”

 

“Oh, ho ho,” Stiles laughed, almost manically,“you’re _so_ going down.”And Derek went down on Stiles. 

 

Okay, Stiles’s body made Derek go down. Into the water. So, really, there was no going down on Stiles. Technicalities. 

 

Derek came spluttering up, with vengeance of his eyebrows. Holy shit, Stiles should be scared. “You started it,”Stiles drew out his words like a petulant child, practically pouting.

 

 

Sometime later, Stiles lay drying on the wooden planks tracking a lucky drop of water as it ran from the back of Derek’s hair, right down his spine and disappeared where his wet trunks slung low on his ass. 

 

It was the calmest he felt in a while.

 

Which was, of course, when thing got tense. 

 

And talks of feelings and regrets had to be _talked_. He hated feelings, especially the talking about feelings type of talk. 

 

 

 

 

As the days went by, and his summer days and nights were spent with a particular sour wolf who hoarded the tv’s control with an iron fist, he managed to avoid everything. Namely, his father and Lydia, who were _relentless._ Until, of course, he had to go back home because nothing of Derek’s fitted him; the dude was _built_ and Stiles was not. He was slender, dammit. 

 

Of course the universe had to have a sense of humor. How else could he explain having both Lydia and his father sitting at the kitchen table? What were the chances that he decided to go home that day, at that time and that both of them were there?

 

Right. 

 

He could be stealth. If he wanted to. Like if he put his mind to it. Just not at that instance, because two pair of eyes focused on him. 

 

“Stiles,” they called out in unison. Halting him midway in the first stair step. He _could_ ignore them, pretend he hadn’t hear them but then he didn’t think they’d fall for it. The tv wasn’t even on. 

 

“Dad,” he drawled. Exaggerating his walk as he made his way over to them. “What are you doing here? I mean, fancy seeing you here.”

 

The sheriff gave him a look. “What am I doing in my house.”

 

“Heh. Is this some family meeting? Are you still dating Lydia’s mom? Because you told me that was a _one_ time thing and not like a thing, like you know not a one night sta—“

 

“Stiles,” shouted Lydia, a bit scandalized, if he had ever witnessed such expression on her. The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose and apologized to her.

 

“This is a…” The Sheriff sounded pained, and all that uncomfortable. 

 

Lydia cut in, “ An intervention, Stiles. And yes, we _had_ to come to this and you have only yourself to blame for this.” 

 

Dutifully, he took a seat across from Lydia. He’d seen enough reality tv shows to know how this went, and it had been months. Avoiding took a toll on him, but avoiding _Lydia_ was exhausting and tiring on his mental and physical self. A week earlier, he had stopped to replenish his Doritos stash in Derek’s place, because the dude loathed _taste,_ when he had spotted a certain telltale hair. That was the day he had been banned from the bakery area. It wasn’t his fault that had been the closest exit, and that there were carrying a red velvet cake. Which, by the way, had been delicious. He’d make sure to tell her than next time. Yeah, he didn’t think it’d be appreciated.

 

There was a distinctive thud when Stiles’ forehead connected with the kitchen table. He blindly gesticulated and resignedly said, “I give up. Lay it on me. Dad, have an ambulance on standby.” 

 

Not that Lydia would hurt him. He didn’t even really know why he didn’t want to have this conversation. Except he did. What he didn’t know was what to say to her. A girl who he had idolized for so long, until he got to know her and found out how amazing and brilliant she was, and how human she had been all along. He truly loved her, but not like how he once believed he did. And he had hurt her, he had wanted to do more than just apologize to her. 

 

Weeks after he still had nothing to say to her and how much of an asshole did that make him. He knew a simple apology would suffice, but that wasn’t enough for him, for what she deserved. And so his go-to, his solution, was to ignore it all. To ignore _her_. 

 

Lydia was tenacious, but above all other she cared. Somehow, someway, Lydia had decided Stiles was lucky enough to deserve her friendship. 

 

“I just want to be here for you Stiles. I _know_ you, you know. I know that right now you’re beating yourself up for so many things. For everything that happened, but it wasn’t your fault. I’m not here to try to convince you of it. I’m just here to let you know that I’ll always be here for you. Even if you do run and ruin a kid’s birthday cake just because you’re a scaredy cat.”

 

Wasn’t he though? He still had his head down, hiding from both of them. He didn’t move; he didn’t make a sound. “Except,” Lydia continued. “You’re not. You fought against them, you sacrificed yourself to save us all. And you fought to get back to us.Know that we were all waiting for you to come back, Stiles.”

 

It must have been the crack in her voice, or that he finally broke down, but he swiveled in his seat to see Lydia standing beside him, smiling down at him. With a small smile of his own, he stood to engulf her in his arms. Whispering in her ears, he apologized for the first time, and the second, and he lost track of how much time they stood there in a hug and how many times he asked for forgiveness. 

 

What had been a short trip to his childhood home, soon became a family hangout. He did miss his dad and Lydia. The whole gang, in fact. And it showed in his wariness to leave them again, so for a while they all eat and spend time screaming at the tv. When Lydia finally called it a night, night had descended in town.

 

Lydia looked like there was something on her mind, and so he followed her to her car. There, she stood looking at the sky for a while, before leaning against the driver’s door. “He was there the whole time, you know. Derek. He wouldn’t leave you even for a second.”

 

Somewhere Derek was hearing the staccato beating of Stiles’ heart. Somewhere Derek didn’t know what had caused. Somewhere Derek didn’t know that he was the reason. To what, Stiles didn’t know, except that he was always the reason and the answer to everything. 

 

He thought he _knew_ what Lydia’s words meant, her confession to something that Stiles shouldn’t have ever known. Which is when she added, “Until you came back.”

 

 

 

***

 

Stiles made his way up to Derek’s floor, and stifled a yawn as he wandered down the hall. All he wanted was to get into bed. After the third night in a row, he had resigned to his newfound co-sleeping-dependency on Derek. There was no magical dicking whatsoever happening in this scenario, but it seemed that the only time he could get even a ounce of sleep was by Derek’s side. 

 

There was no melodrama to be found, either. The thing was that he purposely avoided all things possession, while it still had a firm hold on him. He could ignore it all he wanted, but it all came back to it and it was _eating_ at him.

 

Looking for Derek seemed to be an itch he needed to scratch. It was like the dull pain, the phantom tingle at his thumb, that still hadn’t gone away. The doctors and the sheriff told Stiles that he’d been in a coma. For no apparent reason, and for no reason at all he had just as strangely come out of it. 

 

Then, there was the fact that his dad knew everything, and he felt an overwhelming relief.In another world, another reality of himself, he might had a problem with his dad finding out about werewolves, and things that lurked in Beacon Hill, but not in this one. It might had to do with the circumstances, but he couldn’t even begin to be mad at Derek for saving him. 

 

He didn’t hesitate to knock, but it was pitiful and wane. He’d debate if Derek heard him, but he knew, just like how knew Derek had heard him at Brewed, that he was there. If only because of his werewolf hearing. Slowly he sank to the floor, leaning against the door. Drawing up his knees, he rested his arms on them. 

 

Sometimes it felt like he was still going through with motions, routines of things that he’d never given much thought to before. 

 

When Derek opened the door, the inevitable happened. He almost welcome the sprawled position. Derek had answered the door in a t-shirt, grey sweatpants, bare feet. He looked rumpled, even messy, and infinitely touchable. The look from down there wasn’t bad at all.

 

Derek stretched out a hand towards Stiles. Without a word, he reached for it and got to his feet. Stiles raised his head, and when they were eye to eye, all that came out was his heart breaking. 

 

It’s that thing, the one that happens when you’re trying not to break, and then your voice does that wobbly, breaking thing. And shit, it does. “You _asshole_ ,” he said it so vehemently, that for a second Derek was taken aback. A snort-sob escaped, but he didn’t shed a tear. “You _absolute_ asshole. I thought—”

 

He’s not sure what he thought. That Derek had left him to die? That Stiles was the one who kept going back to Derek, annoying him. That Derek didn’t care for him. That he hadn’t cared enough to even visit him, let alone see if he had lived. And yet, he had gone for him. He had _fought_ for him. 

 

The sentence floated in the air, unfinished and unvoiced. Somehow he’d tell Derek how grateful he was, how sorry he’d always be. 

 

Derek was there, one hand on his shoulder and the other flat against his chest. His expression didn’t dim, not with pity, not with sympathy. He simply continued to stare patiently at Stiles, waiting for him to speak. Or not to.

 

“I don’t know how to make them go away. Make _her_ go away. She used mom against me, and I’m _forced_ to see her in that bathtub, to see her wither away.” 

 

The admission snapped something in his chest. His nails scraped against Derek’s chest as his hands curled into fists and his knees gave away. The first sob that escaped felt like it ripped his heart out on the way to his mouth. He bit one fist as he crumpled, bit down hard enough to break the skin, but nothing would stop the tears. He curled in on himself, beating his forehead against his knees without knowing it.

The first wave of panic was the worst, seizing his limbs and smothering his lungs. But he felt a little of the pain, the darkness, leeching out through his eyes, until he felt the panic receding. Making breathing easier, less constrictive. 

 

His eyes were opened when Derek’s hand came to view, he’d place them in the wooden floor. Kept them there until Stiles’ looked up through wet eyelashes, and asked if it was okay to put his arms around him. 

 

Stiles nodded.

 

Derek’s arms were so tight around him that Stiles felt like he was being held together. His head cushioned on Derek’s shoulder. And Derek was speaking into his wet hair. “I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

 

After some time, he ran out of sobs. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I just have to rest a little.”

 

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Guys, I really need encouragement here just because I'm contemplating abandoning this project and working on my OC. If you guys like it leave some comments, please?
> 
> for updates follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thebookedreader) and [Tumblr](http://keepholdingontobooks.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> The entire chapter one has been edited and revised. So, no more edits and should be the final version.


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